


A Pale Tide Grieving

by TheWaffleBat



Series: Home From All The Ports [16]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Every Story Has an Ending fix it, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, because Odyssey can't do anything right and they fucked up so bad with scholar dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaffleBat/pseuds/TheWaffleBat
Summary: “Would you like me to leave a few moments?” She asked, gentle as Herodotus took a shaky breath and shivered under the gentle breeze blowing in from Poseidon’s sea. “I won’t go far.”He shook his head. “No,” Herodotus murmured. “Dearest Kassandra, no. Please stay with me, I don’t think-” He swallowed again. “I cannot do this alone. And I would rather my daughter here to help me say goodbye than one of my brothers.”“Then it’s only us and these beasts for miles around,” Kassandra said, and stroked Phobos’ nose. “And none of us will judge you.”Herodotus isn't sure how to say goodbye to his parents. Kassandra, as always, is there for him.





	A Pale Tide Grieving

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Rudyard Kipling's _The King's Pilgrimage._

Kassandra followed Herodotus on Phobos’ back, a few steps behind Herodotus’ gold-coated gelding as he followed the trail through the forest to the marker his brother had pointed to, pale and small on the clifftop. Samos’ gentle quiet followed them even here beneath the trees’ boughs stretching overhead, needles soft under their horses’ hooves hushing even their heavy footfalls as they were guided between the shadowed trunks.

Lykaon whined in his dark-furred throat, close at Phobos’ side while he sniffed the air and turned his ears this way and that as he tried to find whatever had upset his masters. Kassandra whistled for him to follow when it seemed he’d decided a rabbit or a tiny bird eating seeds was a good enough reason for Herodotus and Kassandra to be upset, and she threw him a little piece of meat when he obeyed because Lykaon was a good wolf; he didn’t know about the letter hanging heavy on Herodotus’ belt, a brother sullen in the old family home snarling that Herodotus hadn’t cared that their parents were dead.

And Herodotus seemed… drawn. Tired as he patted his horse’s neck and rounded the wide trunk of a tree, the wrinkles carved deep on his face gone deeper, dark around his mouth and heavy across his eyes. Even his beard seemed exhausted, the wiry hairs almost limp and more white than grey, now, as beneath it his mouth twisted into a cousin of a grimace.

He’d been up late all through the journey to Samos, and Kassandra knew that because she’d stayed with him on the Adrestia’s deck through all those long, lonely hours when all the crew was asleep. Some nights they sat in silence, watching the clouds drifting dark over the moon, or listening to the waves against the hull when rain forced them into shelter below the deck. Others he’d told her stories about a _pater_ who loved to laugh, and a _mater_ who’d taught him kindness, and of brothers who were rough with him and played tricks on him, but loved him no matter what.

Theodoros from Herodotus’ stories, that young boy in Herodotus’ memories he smiled for when the nights wore on dark and endless and Kassandra asked him about those good memories to distract him, was a very different man now. Kassandra wondered if Herodotus would let her smack him around a bit. Nothing dangerous; just a blow or seven to his face as a warning that Kassandra was Herodotus’ daughter in every way that mattered, and she wasn’t a daughter who would put up with Theodoros taking his own grief out on him.

Ikaros, quiet as he circled overhead - not quite knowing why the Adrestia had been so quiet since Herodotus had got that letter from a runner, but knowing it was there because he was a clever bird, cleverer than most - gave a low cry of _sad_ as he drifted low, braving the dense branches overhead to settle on Herodotus’ shoulder and shove his head underneath Herodotus’ blue hood to preen his hair for him, gentle enough to not tug too sharply and hurt him. He’d trained on Kassandra first, long ago; he knew how to be gentle for Herodotus now, talons gripping Herodotus’ skinny shoulders so carefully, sharp beak combing through his greyed hair so gently as he crooned _sad_ again.

Poseidon’s sea, wine-dark in the pink dawn light, swept out from edge to edge of the world, calm as Herodotus dismounted and handed the reins of his gelding to Kassandra. He left them there in the shadow of the forest as he climbed the short way to the little monument, white stone bright against the lavender sky in the light of the rising sun.

Kassandra leaned against a tree, called Ikaros from Herodotus’ shoulder when he eased himself down, kneeling on the stone cliff top and bowed his head to his parents’ memorials. Lykaon made to follow, still poking his nose into every half-grown shrub stunted by the sea wind like there was something in them he could kill to make Herodotus happy again, but stilled when Kassandra grabbed his scruff, told him to sit. The least she or her pets could do was give Herodotus space.

Herodotus swallowed thickly. “I’ve never been very good at speaking,” He said, quiet around the tears heavy in his voice. “I was always better at writing than speaking. I don’t-... I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ll think of something,” Kassandra told him, and stroked Ikaros’ back to calm him, keep him from flying over to Herodotus to carry on grooming his hair; Herodotus needed to do it on his own, for all that Kassandra and Lykaon and Ikaros was here with him, keeping him company while he visited the memorial humble against the sky and on Samos itself to do any heavy-lifting he might need, whatever he asked them to do to help. But maybe this - saying goodbye - was something he had to do alone. “Would you like me to leave a few moments?” She asked, gentle as Herodotus took a shaky breath and shivered under the gentle breeze blowing in from Poseidon’s sea. “I won’t go far.”

He shook his head. “No,” Herodotus murmured. “Dearest Kassandra, no. Please stay with me, I don’t think-” He swallowed again. “I cannot do this alone. And I would rather my daughter here to help me say goodbye than one of my brothers.”

“Then it’s only us and these beasts for miles around,” Kassandra said, and stroked Phobos’ nose. “And none of us will judge you.”

It took him a while to find the words he wanted to say, awkward and stilted as he spoke to the dead, and when he started to speak Kassandra turned her attention to Poseidon’s sea, and to Ikaros and the horses crowding her back, nosing her arms for a pet, and to Lykaon with ears lowered at the sound of tears thick in Herodotus’ voice. She was there for him, but his words were for his parents, not for her, and the least she could do was not listen as he bared his grief and soul for them.

He was silent a lot longer when he was done, eyes closed as the dawn light spilled gold across the cliffs, and Kassandra helped him to his feet when he was done. Vigil or prayer or just things he wanted to confess inside his head, not aloud, Kassandra didn’t care; she just let Herodotus lean on her arm as he worked out a little of the stiffness the ground’s night-chill seeping into his bones had left him with.

“Are you alright?”

Herodotus took a breath. Another, and let it out. “Yes,” He said, and took her hand between both of his own with a smile, small and sad beneath the shadows of wrinkles carved deep. “Yes, I think so. Thank you, Kassandra. It’s only a shame my parents never got to meet you - they would have adored grandchildren like you and Deimos. My _mater_ would have pestered you both endlessly for good stories.”

Lykaon, tail waving from side to side a little uncertainly, nosed under Herodotus’ arm with a soft _whuff_ , crowding close in his own kind of comfort. Ikaros settled on Herodotus’ shoulder, crooning low and sad in shared grief because he didn’t know Herodotus’ family, five weeks gone, but he knew their loss made Herodotus unhappy and, through Kassandra, he liked Herodotus enough to share that unhappiness.

Kassandra drew him close for a hug, his head tucked beneath her chin because she was no dainty little thing, sharing Herodotus' delicate bones and fine-boned hands, but she was his, and Lykaon leaned against Herodotus like his own hug too. “Don’t mention it,” She said. “You would do the same for me.”

Herodotus squeezed Kassandra's hand, drew away a little bit. "I had thought of leaving, for a moment," He said, rubbing his thumb across the wind-roughened back of Kassandra's hand. "To Thourioi. Perhaps write up a book about you, although I doubt anyone would believe half the things you've gone through. Half the things we've shared." He shook his head with a low chuckle. "Fool idea. If I leave, who's going to stop you throwing your little brother Stentor overboard when he annoys you? No, back to the Adrestia, I think," He said, and looked to the little dockside town sheltered in the bay where Barnabas and Deimos waited for them to come home on the deck, Nikolaos sat on the benches with Stentor watching them. "There is nothing on Samos for me now, and I would regret not seeing where you take us more than I will regret learning about that mysterious land." Herodotus stayed quiet a moment, rubbing his thumb across the back of Kassandra's hand again. "But in a moment," He said. "I'd like to stay here with you a little while longer, before I have to suffer Barnabas' mother-henning again."

Gently, Herodotus pulled Kassandra close, his hand resting gentle on Lykaon’s broad brow as the wolf leaned against his shoulder. They kept watch over the little memorial as the sun rose pale-gold from the distant horizon, Poseidon’s seas gentle against the base of the white-stoned cliffs, pale in the dawn sunlight creeping across Samos.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, hello, welcome to another edition of 'Ubisoft's writing team are terrible', today those horsecock motherfuckers have fucked up on an Oedipal level, and that level is 'they've saddled Herodotus with the worst questline in the entire game'.
> 
> Herodotus' quest is _awful_ , legitimately fucking awful, and I don't say that lightly. Skyrim's writing wasn't the best but at least everything was fucking relevant. Here it was all was poorly explained (it's so bad I didn't even know how Herodotus knew his parents were dead until we got to his old house, I didn't know his parents were murdered until _halfway through the fucking questline_ , and I'm still not sure why Theodoros was such an unrelenting cunt outside of the bullshit plot), the entire Persian invasion was a footnote at best, the Followers of Ares was never explained, why the fuck was Mestor allowed to live, and _why was Herodotus leaving the Adrestia for the wilderness?_ Oh sure, he did it in real life, but I don't take that as an excuse in a game where there's an ancient, technologically-advanced-to-the-point-of-literal-godhood civilisation.
> 
> So this is my fuck you to Ubisoft. Will they give a shit? No, but I feel better having done this because scholar dad deserves better.


End file.
